


you're breaking apart and i'm a bleeding heart

by grandstander



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: M/M, i dont like the ending but Whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 09:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3804781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandstander/pseuds/grandstander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>to heal, f. (feeling) <br/>To mend, to hold the pieces together within your palms and slowly press them together again, to let it sit and let time regrow what has been hurt; to love so deeply you break your own heart a little so that it, too, will heal in time (and your tears will clean the wounds).</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're breaking apart and i'm a bleeding heart

**Author's Note:**

> ?? ?? ? ? who knows what this is its sad and gay kind of  
>  ( donnell voice ) sorry ma
> 
> i was p gung ho about writing this but i dont think i like it as much as i originally planned :T i mostly wrote it for the dialogue but i think it was better in my head 
> 
> [ inspired by [this fanart](http://f0ffff.tumblr.com/post/117139880801/let-me-take-care-of-you) ]

Brady’s chest hurts; it seizes with pain and fear, a fear that runs so deep and black it makes him feel sick. It makes his knees feel weak, makes him clutch the rod of his staff so tightly his knuckles are vexed and look as if the bones might burst from the skin. It seems into the rest of his body, filling his lungs like water and oh gods-- oh gods does he hurt. There’s not a cut on his body, not a bruise; Owain is the one who looks as if he’s looked into the pit of hell and Brady wonders, with the way he’s still standing as if glory be his sword and with the way his own heart trembles in its cage, that if all the pain Owain should be feeling was somehow thrust upon his own shoulders. 

It’s not ‘til after the battle, after fear and fret has eaten him alive from the inside out, can he touch Owain. His fingers are shaking by the time they’ve retired to Brady’s tent (upon his own insistence, a begging sort of plea so that he could tend to Owain himself), and he watches with down-turned, tightly pressed together lips as the myrmidon sheds the yellow robes from his torso. There’s more bruises beneath them, surely from the hits he blocked last second and the brunt ends of axes against his ribs, and oh gods does it make that black terror in his stomach turn to a blue cloak, wrapping his heart in pain. 

( His fingers are still trembling when he begins to heal, and when he begins to wrap the bandages. ) 

He tends to Owain in silence, which is somewhat unnerving but also isn’t entirely out of place. Owain is patient, whatever pride that blossoms on his lips when he speaks as a poet of old, instead a patient quietness, because he can feel and he can read it-- he can see the hurt in Brady’s eyes, see it as clear as day.

( It hurts more than blood seeping from flesh to see his beloved like this, but what else can he do? He can only pray, and only keep Brady’s name close to his lips and his heart like a prayer, a prayer for the damned, and he might as well be on a battlefield. ) 

In the silence Owain can hear the barely audible choke of a muffled cry, and he can feel a series of warm droplets fall against his stomach. For a second it feels as if the air has been knocked out of his lungs, but he retains himself quickly, face softening and a hand raising to slide against the side of Brady’s cheek. He tried to hold them back, quite honestly-- but Owain, with his golden heart, can only bring honesty from Brady (often times in the form of tears, but it is also honest words and honest feelings, too ). They fell slower, and Brady presses his cheek into the hand, biting his bottom lip to keep out any sounds, and closing his eyes to try and calm himself; he keeps from pressing his own hand against Owain’s to keep him there, but he’d rather not drop the rolls of cloth in his hands, so he simply presses his cheek against the blond’s rough palm as firmly as he can.

Owain’s hand gently brings his face upwards, his thumb stroking pale skin to wipe the tears away. Owain is patient with him, so patient and gentle, and it warms Brady’s heart-- it makes him feel light headed at times, pink in color. His crying softens, but his breathing is still shaky and a small blubbering noise escapes him. 

“’m sorry.” 

His voice is rough, and tired, and Owain all but laughs, a soft sound that holds no ill-will behind it. “Ah, trying to heal my wounds with your own tears?” he says, voice warm and full of that sort of radiating shine that his entire aura has, and his shoulders shake a little bit in another unheard chuckle. His smile remains, and it makes Brady’s heart beat a little harder, and he feels like a sun might have been born in his rib cage. “I assure you, old friend, you needn’t be so dedicated. I will heal just fine with your hands and staff.” 

Brady doesn’t protest, his brow pinching together just slightly and trying to stop the remaining small tears at the corners of his eyes. Owain tilts his head down just slightly, pressing his lips against Brady’s. It’s awkward, with Brady’s own lips trembling a little bit and wet from the passing moments, but Owain is as sweet in his touch as ever ( if anything, Brady would argue that Owain, too, had a healing touch himself; or, at least, it felt like it ). His kisses are soft, and they subdue the healer’s small, muffled cries, though his eyes are still watery as his bloody fingers wrap the last of the bandages.

An ‘I love you’ is at the edge of his lips ( along with a thousand other pleas that lovers exchange ), but he can’t find the words in his throat, so he speaks through his touch, pressing the pieces of his aching heart into the wounds and wiping his cheeks every so often, so as not to make Owain’s skin burn. When he is finished, Owain responds to him with an ‘I love you, too’ in a kiss and in a soft whisper that only they share with the stars above their heads.


End file.
